


My Moral Standing Is Lying Down

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know Sam's pretty rough in bed. What if he wasn't that way at first? He was all sweet and vanilla with Jess and Madison, but then Ruby started getting bored during sex and kept trying to get him to spice it up. She'd probably insult him/egg him on, but what I'm really looking for is that, just like exorcising demons with his mind, Sam is eventually up to the demon's standards, giving her all the rough, dirty, kinky sex she can wants. If you want a specific kink, then merciless teasing please :) but really I want Ruby to mold Sam into the filthiest lover she can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Moral Standing Is Lying Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round four of the blindfold kink meme, for the summary prompt.

He promised her sobriety, but fuck it, he was drunk when he made that promise, legless and reckless overlaid with bone-deep apathetic, all covering over the darker things that he'd gotten pretty good at ignoring. Yeah, whatever, he remembered thinking as he said the words, without meaning them in the slightest. It was easy to make the promise, he found, when the breaking of it didn't mean shit to him: which had rarely happened to him before. What was she gonna do the first time he cracked open a bottle at breakfast? Yell at him? Good. Kick his ass? Better. Leave? Best. It was all win, he figured, and so he spent those first couple of weeks as drunk as he'd ever been. He felt, then, that that was as good a plan as any for the rest of his life, whatever he'd told her as she sat at the table, holding his whiskey in her hands and him willing to say about anything to get it back. If she wanted to do this, she was going to have to learn to live with him this way, or any way he chose to be.

So he stayed drunk, and so he was drunk the first time he fucked her. They were coming off a training session, and the pressure in his skull felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before, lancing through his brain even through the cottony, nearsighted feeling the Jack gave him. They'd been unsuccessful, the way they always were, those early days, and after, she eyed his clutch on the bottle with something approaching contempt. Her voice was a distant hum in his ears as he swallowed. And things got a little fuzzy after that.

Somehow they went from the drinking and the nagging to the fucking, that night, that was clear. True, he was vague on the exact how of it. Also, to be honest, the exact mechanics of it. He did remember shouting at her, something about greeting cards, of all things. He remembered clutching her hips tightly as he thrust up into her. He remembered the taste of her hair in his mouth. He remembered staring into the fire with her asleep on his shoulder, feeling surprised when he realized she was still there because he hadn't been thinking of her at all. And that was about it, before the morning after. When he woke there were distinct purple teeth-marks on Ruby's breasts and painful-looking bruises covering the rest of her torso, and he figured he'd better sober up before he did them both real harm.

he sobered up, all right, but he didn't stop fucking her, even though that had been the real impetus behind cutting back on the drinking. He did sincerely have every intention of never touching her again. Somehow, though, that didn't happen; somehow, Ruby manipulated him into place and he could never think of a good enough reason not to let himself be manipulated, even when he knew exactly what she was doing. And so the time he'd spent drinking, before became more or less taken up by holding himself over her, manipulating her in a more literal sense, pushing his cock into her. He took it easy, though, after that first time, careful to hold himself up to give her room to breathe, especially conscious of her uncoordination in her recently-acquired body, avoiding her too-expansive gestures as she settled into this new activity, as they learned a rhythm together.

It wasn't good, exactly -- he couldn't remember the last time something was _good_ , though he could remember various specific instances in the past -- but it was something to fill the time and the black hole inside of him, and the event horizon, expanding every day, at least expanded a little more slowly when he had something to concentrate on.

Fucking and exorcising. What a life. "What a goddamned life," he said it out loud in the car one night, not really thinking, shovels and weapons and grave dirt in the back seat. The words turned Ruby's eyes black and her voice into sandpaper for a few seconds, and he took that in with a sort of mute shock, but let her push his hand down the front of her unzipped jeans anyway. Fucking a _demon_ and exorcising.

It wasn't easy, it turned out, to keep the _demon_ part of the new mission statement in mind.

:::

"Hey. I have a question for you." She hadn't bothered to push him off after they'd finished, and he was still draped over her with his dick softening inside her, the condom squelchy around him as it loosened. He wondered idly if you could get a demon in a dead body pregnant, and, thus distracted, didn't bother to answer, or, for that matter, open his eyes to acknowledge her presence. Or even to pull out of her.

She must've known he wasn't asleep, though, because she went on. "How come the best fuck we ever had was the one time you were too drunk to string a sentence together?"

He did open his eyes at that, and at her tone. She'd been sharp with him plenty of times before, had been sharp with him ten times that day, but there was a keen malice in her voice at that moment that he hadn't heard since her last meatsuit (if he'd thought about it at any point, which he hadn't, he'd maybe have thought that the mean edge to Ruby Mark One was a product of that body, but that was obviously not so much the case). "What, don't have an answer? Or is it just that you're not gonna bother giving it to me?" She pushed off him with an impatient sound and got up off the mattress. The condom followed her onto the floor with a repugnant little splat, and she kicked it away with a grimace. "Fuck, never mind." Barefoot on the filthy floor, she stepped on something that left a trail of little bloody spots in her wake as she stalked away. He doubted she'd even noticed.

He got out of the chair, too, and followed the trail of blood to the boarded up window at the end of the hallway. She stood facing it as though she could see through the rotting plywood. He eyed the flawless curve of her bare back and thought of the marks on her the day after that first time. "I hurt you, in case you don't remember -- what's 'best' about that?"

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I didn't want to hurt you." She scoffed audibly at the plywood, and it sounded ridiculous even to him, but he plowed on regardless, feeling big and stupid, oxlike. "I mean, I know you're strong, but I'm also twice your weight, at least."

"You complete dumbass. You're not up to my weight in any way. You do realize that, right?"

He couldn't argue with her there; their training sessions, his failures and his headaches and, worst of all, the nights when she drove back to the house because he couldn't see -- a nauseating thing, to see her in the driver's seat -- reinforced the truth of that statement a little more with each passing day. But still, he did feel the need to defend himself. "I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds, Ruby. You realize that, right?"

"Seriously, I don't think that's so much an issue when I can just lift you off me if I don't want you on me." He had to admit she had him there, and shrugged, half-angry, half sheepish.

"Look, Sam, you know what your biggest problem is, right now? Not just with me, but with everything we're trying to do here?" He didn't answer; he knew what his biggest problem was, and it wasn't what she thought it was. Whatever that was.

She finally turned to face him, her face tight with frustration. "You won't just do it. You think things work best when they're planned in advance, when you have complete control over the results. But sometimes? Sometimes they just don't. Sometimes the worst thing you can do is hold too tight. We're not ever gonna get any further than we are now unless you can stop overthinking everything, and you can't seem to stop overthinking everything without getting blitzed. So we're just going to sit in this fucking shack, day after day, giving you headaches and putting me into comas of boredom, and Lilith's still out there and we're never going to get closer to killing her! Not unless you _just let go_!" She finished up shouting and out of breath, stared at him for what seemed like ten minutes, and then swept her hand out in disgust. "I can't even look at you right now. I'm going to go get some French Fries." She stormed back to the chair, gathered up her clothes, and put them on at the door.

He had enough to think about that he didn't realize that she'd taken the car until they were both already gone, a gesture clearly intended to piss him off, since she didn't need to drive to get around, and that did piss him off amazingly, so that was a good call on her part. For lack of anything satisfying to punch, he reached for the whiskey bottle before thinking better of it.

:::

That was a turning point. Kind of, anyway. If he'd been watching this ridiculous story on TV, the change would have been clean-cut and unequivocal, and the road would have been smoother once he'd learned this Important Key to Success. Except that they weren't on TV, and things were messier than that; they two-step-forward-one-step-backed it for a while before they found a rhythm that worked. He'd forget he was supposed to stop thinking, or he'd just not be able to switch off, and predictable as the miles ticking over on an odometer, he'd fail. And knowing Ruby, she arranged things, weighted the results so that his failure was inevitable on days when his brain slipped into overdrive. Still, though, on the days when he was able to clear his mind, things fell together in a way they hadn't in years. It was pretty satisfying, actually, even if he wasn't about to admit that to Ruby.

And it was the lamest, most embarrassingly clichéd solution ever, but the sex actually helped relax him. It had been so long since he'd had sex that hadn't ended in grief or death or despair that he'd forgotten the uncomplicated pleasures of just going with what felt right, reaching for the maximum turn-on. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever been capable of simply acting on impulse in that particular way; he'd always held a feeling of responsibility to his partners. A mark of civilization, right? To be considerate. He'd never just thrown a girl onto her knees without warning. He'd never used a girl's hair for leverage. He'd never fucked a girl and rolled over to sleep without a word.

But Ruby wasn't a girl, and her body wasn't holding a girl; that was a fact that he was trying harder to keep in mind, these days.

And there were other advantages, too, to not thinking; tapping into his inner caveman might mean that suddenly the doors were quietly opening in his head, but it also just meant that he could keep avoiding (with increasing success) things he'd been trying for months to avoid. There were plenty of them, after all.

It still wasn't good. But it was better.

:::

He woke up one morning early in August to find Ruby gone from the bed. That wasn't unusual in itself, since Ruby didn't sleep except as a kind of placatory gesture -- sleeping with her awake nearby was just not a thing he was ever going to want to do -- but as he wandered through the house, rubbing his hand across his jaw, he discovered she wasn't in the house at all, and that was unusual. The car was parked there in the underbrush, though, so he didn't think much about her absence as he sniffed the previous night's clothes before shrugging and pulling them on.

It wasn't until pushed aside the weapons on the table to clear a space for his laptop and bottled coffee drink that she reappeared, breathless with news. "Yeah," she said, commandeering his drink to take a sip while he smacked at her hip in annoyance. "Some henchman of Lilith's, I heard, and he's in Nebraska. Up for a road trip, Sammy?"

A part of him he'd been trying not to listen to balked at the nickname, but apart from the automatic stiffening, Sam didn't say anything about her casual, entitled use of it; he'd learned that to confess an annoyance or a fear to Ruby was to hand her a weapon, and no way did she need more of those to use against him.

Up for a road trip. He wasn't sure he was up for it. In a weird way, the house they'd been squatting in had become, well, not a home, exactly -- only one home for Sam, in his life -- but their own convenient survivalist compound, a military base for two, and the thought of leaving it left him feeling exposed. He just nodded, though, and said, "I can be ready in fifteen, how about you?"

They fucked one last time before they left, didn't even bother to undress for it. Ruby's legs were wrapped over his hipbones, her heels dug into the backs of his thighs as he thrust so hard her head knocked back against the crumbling wall. His dick in her cunt and two fingers stuffed in her ass, her filthy mouth whispering in his ear, and they were in the car in not much longer than fifteen minutes, after all.

The trip to Lincoln was an easy drive, relatively speaking. Eleven hours in a car would be a long haul for some people, but nothing for Sam on his three-year road trip. Less than that for Ruby, who measured time in ways that Sam had never quite managed to figure out, but it was different enough that Sam assumed that time just ran differently in Hell somehow, and never asked because although he did want to know, he also know he couldn't hear the answer, not and stay on-task.

They made one stop, and Sam got out of the car dazed and half sunblind, mind traveling ahead of them down the road. They ate quickly, leaning against the passenger side of the car at the truckstop, stretching their legs in the sun, and things kept occurring to Sam, things they needed to discuss, bases they needed to touch on their way to home plate, but the words dried in his throat. His first long trip on the road in months: it was fucking with his equilibrium something especially fierce. He kept looking over at Ruby at the wrong angle, as if he expected her to be taller. Halfway through the ham sandwich, his throat wouldn't swallow any more, and he felt like a bald tire, still holding up at the expected momentum but worn unevenly down to the point where the next rocky spot might be the end of it.

When she'd eaten, Ruby eyed him consideringly for a long minute, then took him by the hand and sneaked him into the ladies' room. Almost Pavlovian, conditioned to respond; he knew what was coming and was half-hard by the time Ruby pressed the button door lock, and by the time she'd finished unbuttoning her blouse, he was all the way there. She jerked him off slowly, Sam staring down at her hand wrapped around him, his own hands tight on her shoulders. He came, breathing heavily, feeling more substantial as he came down to earth. There were splashes of his come on her, milky white across her perfect breasts. He leaned over to lick and bite at it, ignoring the polite, muted hey, there's someone waiting outside the door throat-clearing and shuffling from the corridor. His mind was already back on the road again.

:::

First time sleeping in a motel in months, first time sleeping in a proper bed for months. His life, his real life, his old life, was much too close to him in the hermetic, disinfectant darkness around him, so different from the breathing walls and the faint, pervasive smell of mold in their squat, only Ruby's light weight in the bed beside him was a reminder that it wasn't just business as usual, for him, not any more. He concentrated on her as lay there, his attempts at sleep a notable failure and his attempts at motionlessness only marginally more successful. And both attempts were apparently loud ones, because after what seemed like hours with his eyes squeezed shut, Ruby's voice pushed at him from the other side of the bed.

"Sam, if you're not gonna sleep, you should get out of bed and work, at least."

He grimaced at the hotel clock, which read 2:37. "I need to get some rest."

"Yeah, maybe. But you're not getting it, so wouldn't it be more productive to hit the practice field?"

"No," he insisted. "I'm always better when I'm rested, you know that."

"You're missing my point, here, Sam, which is that as true as that may be, it's not like you're actually getting rested lying in bed approaching the state of rigor mortis." There was a rustling sound as she moved, and when she spoke again, her voice was much closer. "You're really just gonna lay there all night, wide awake. You're really gonna not get anything else done because you've convinced yourself that if you're not sleeping, you're doing nothing at all on the off chance that sleep might come." They weren't questions. She sighed, exasperated. "I gotta say, Sam, at least you're consistent."

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, flushed with anger and embarrassment at her reading of him. Not that she was wrong; no denying that the once he was convinced of a thing, he wasn't going to be pulled off-course by much. This felt like the thing he ought to be doing, so it was going to get done and fuck how long it took to get him there, right?

He hated, hated that she knew him so well. And that she was goddamned right.

It took him a while before he was sure that if he spoke, it wouldn't be through gritted teeth. "Ruby, I'm not getting out of bed so that I can give myself a headache that'll last through tomorrow, okay? If I'm being dumb by just lying in bed, then that's a dumb idea too."

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. "Fine, Sam."

He reached behind him, groped, found a body part, and yanked her over the bed toward him; from the sound she made, it wasn't necessarily a body part meant to be yanked, but he kept yanking anyway until she was free of the tangled bedclothes and her knees were kicking freely at his back.

"Fuck, Sam, I'm not a toy!" Her voice was breathless, probably not in a good way, as he pulled her facedown across his lap.

Oh, yeah, she was. He smiled as his fingers found the curve of her ass, smoothed over it and pressed into her cunt. "Sure you are," he said. "And you know, I think we both like it that way." She jerked at that, twisted as if to throw herself off him, but Sam was ready for the movement and more than up to the task, by now, of pinning her to his knees. With his head and his free hand, he gathered up her wrists and held them behind her back, tight enough and awkward enough that it had to be painful for her when she squirmed. There'd be bruises on her wrists tomorrow, and the thought hardened his dick better than her writhing body in his lap. He flexed his fingers in her, and she gasped, head hanging toward the floor as he fucked her, made her come like that, over his lap, humiliated struggles turning into twists to get his fingers -- three, then four, then his whole hand -- in the right places, so wet for him that when she did come, tight over his wrist like a latex glove, he felt sure he could push his arm right up into her, reach and pull out her heart, easy.

The thought was surprisingly inflaming, in more ways than one. He pulled his hand out of her roughly (not sure, and not really caring, whether the gasp were caused by overstimulation or actual pain), grasped her waist, and uprighted her on his lap with her back to him. Positioned her and forced her back onto his dick, condom-free and stretched so slickly sweet around him that he had to stop them both for a minute to keep from coming right there, immobilizing Ruby's body on top of him until he'd backed away from the ledge. It gave them both time to settle, and by the time he loosened his grasp on her hips, her legs were wide open over his, cunt pressed tight down against him as she took him as deep as she possibly could, grinding her hips as much as his grip would allow. He couldn't see her face, in the dark and turned away from him, but he knew the look that would be on it, slack and half-smiling. He moved his hands to her tits and squeezed and let her control the movement, knowing, with Ruby, that it would be as fast and hard as he could want it.

And it was fast and hard, and he'd come to need it as much as she seemed to, lately; not long before she was coming again, with his hands squeezing her, fucking herself onto his dick with the insides of her thighs chafing against the outsides of his. She arched back into him, head falling back against his shoulder, and he leaned into her and bit down on the curve of her shoulder, harder maybe than he intended because the skin broke, and not just a little because the taste of blood was instantly on his lips and in his mouth.

And, Christ, the taste of her blood. The taste of her flooded him, her skin still against his teeth, and he chased it reflexively, gasping at its incandescence, the way it flashed through him. He licked at the spot where he'd bitten down, swallowed, felt the heated potency of it as he never had quite felt the whiskey, even though he'd been wanting it for months. This, this was better than whiskey.

:::

Better than whiskey, and better than sex, too, because when he eventually comes up for air, Ruby's slack against him, possibly unconscious, and the flow's slowed to a trickle. He pushes her off him and thinks she manages to catch herself before she falls face-first on the floor -- not dead, at least -- and turns on the lamp next to the bed as Ruby's pushing herself to her feet.

Even in the warm lamplight, she looks pale, lips the same sallow color as her skin. The bite mark is still bleeding, sluggishly, a trickle of it running down, just over the inside edge of her aureola. His come, enough of it that he must have come more than once, although he has no memory of even once, trickles similarly down her thighs. And. The endorphins are still racing through him, he's not coming down, not getting soft, not feeling sated or lax, only replete, fully charged. Her blood is singing in his, he can feel it spreading from his heart to his extremities, and every part of his body feels independently alive. His hands want something to do. They know what can be accomplished if he'd give them the lead. His legs have somewhere to go, and he'll find out where that is when they get there.

Still, though. Sam's good, he's flying, but he does at least want to feel sick at the mess he's made of Ruby. Knows that he should. So he stammers an apology through the rush. "I, uh, God, Ruby--" her eyes flash black, and he has a vague recollection of gasping something like it to make the blood pulse faster, hotter, a little while ago, and the skin stands up at the back of his neck -- "I'm really sorry. I don't know what happened, there."

She's recovering, though. Still pale, but the look in her eyes is arrested, sharp as the blade she loves driving home. There's a shocking little half-smile on her bloodless lips. She's focused on him, or not on him so much as in him, as though she's assessing his essence and coming up with a result she kind of likes.

She doesn't say anything, though. Nothing about the bite he's given her, nothing about his obvious and continued arousal, his ongoing sensory overload, nothing about the high that's boiling through him now. She just draws a finger up through the trickle of blood, by now reaching her abdomen, and holds it out to him, and Sam suckles at it like it's mother's milk, tastes the heat of it again.

He feels as though the rest of his life has just started without him, and if he can't catch up, his body will just leave him behind. And maybe this is never going to be good. But it's the best he's going to get.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "The Only Time" by Nine Inch Nails. Also, it should be mentioned that the "approaching the state of rigor mortis" is a glancing reference to David Lynch's surreal comic "The Angriest Dog in the World." For me, both the song and the comic are highly I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer Sam.


End file.
